“What are you saying?”

She sees Shanti — standing still, facing the well. In her hands — the wooden box, now open.

“Your room is upstairs now. Vikram’s old room. The box stays here.”

She takes the box, holds it like a prayer. Meera notices — Shanti’s fingers have no wedding ring. Only a black thread. Vikram is pacing. Meera enters, shaken.